


Like a Rolling Stone

by moonygirl76



Category: Machine Gun Kelly (Musician), Yungblud (Musician)
Genre: A version of Colson, A version of Dom, A version of events, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Boys Kissing, Drugs, Foot Fetish, Happy Ending, It was much more graphic in my head, M/M, Marijuana, Minor Violence, Self-Destruction, Suicide Attempt, but love, but they don't call it that, lots of love, minor smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:48:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23608627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonygirl76/pseuds/moonygirl76
Summary: Colson and Dom meet. Sparks fly. Just don't get burned.
Relationships: Colson Baker | Machine Gun Kelly/Yungblud | Dominic Harrison
Comments: 7
Kudos: 100





	Like a Rolling Stone

**Author's Note:**

> My first in this fandom. Apologies for them being ooc. Apologies for Dom's accent. Apologies if I get it all wrong.   
> Fun was had. Don't yell at me. I'm fragile.

Like a Rolling Stone

Dom just walks in. 

Big British voice and an attitude to match. I’m imagining the room he’s encountered. My friends, and friends of friends, probably twelve guys. Big guys. Tatted and leathered and high. Not any of them Emo. Not flamboyant. Not British. 

“Where’s The Machine Gun at?” I can hear him yell, from where I’m sitting, in the back studio, with the door open. Rook and Slim are with me and all we can do is exchange looks, and smiles, before he’s in. 

“’Ello lads,” he says, all smiles, and I swear to god I’m already in love with the fucker. He walks in like he owns the place. Greeting everyone, collecting names. He plops down next to me and puts his monster shoes up on the coffee table, with a bang, rattling the ash trays. Pink socks. That’s hot. He rests his head against the back of the couch and fills the silence with his chatter like he’s known us all for years. 

I take a minute or an hour thinking about pulling his feet in to my lap. Unlacing those shoes, one by one, and peeling off those pink socks. I look away from his feet to see Rook is laughing at me, no doubt he’s got my number. Talented and hot with an attitude. I’m a goner. I need to get a grip. 

Dom, oblivious, makes loud small talk with Slim and accepts a high five in greeting from Baze, who’s been in the booth most of the morning recording his part. 

He turns to me then. Dom looks me up and down. “What’s you got, bruv?” It’s loud, but gentle at the same time. Warm smile and sparkling green eyes. “Can you play it back, for me, luv?” 

The room is silent, and I’ve lost my voice. “King of Bars,” and the awards to prove it, and I’m literally choking on this crush. His lips, his skin, those eyes, and those damn pink socks. I always thought open-toed sandals were my thing. But damn. 

Slim coughs. “Should I give him what we got, Colson?”

I blink and look away from Dom’s face. I’m being very rude. He probably thinks I’m rude. Or stoned. I am stoned. But that’s not what’s happening.

“Yeah, man,” I tell Slim. “Roll the . . . roll the thing.” I sound like an idiot. He’s going to hate me. “Do you want something to drink?” I ask Dom, hating that my voice just dropped low and quiet. I’m trying very hard not to touch him. This isn’t a hook up at the bar. This is work.

His smile brightens even further. “Yes, please. Do you have a notebook and a pen?” he asks. 

I slide over my own notebook that I have for the album without hesitation. No one but me has written in that notebook. 

When I return, Dom grabs my wrist, spilling half his drink on the floor, “Oh! Fuck me!” he yells, with a laugh, jumping up and down. “Didn’t mean to do that,” he says. But the ‘th’ comes out as a ‘fff’ or ‘vvv’ sound. I am definitely in love. He takes the drink off me and takes three gulps before licking his lips. “Fank you for the drink and for that lovely smile, darling. More of vat, please,” he laughs, again. I try very hard not to smile, which means the fucker is making me smile even more.   
Words, Colson. 

“Did you get any inspiration?” I asked. 

“Oh, yes. The track is hot. Your word words are amazing. Got me right here,” he points to his gut. “Do you wanna just start taping?” he asks. 

I glance at Slim who is giving me a thumbs up. “Sure? Have at it.” I open the door to the booth and follow him through. I fuss a little. Making sure he’s comfortable and has everything he needs. I come back through and sit next to Slim at the controls. 

Dom belts out the first line and it’s brilliant. Nailed it. I swear out loud. 

“You got it bad, my man,” Slim says, quietly, beside me. No judgement. But those fuckers, Baze and Rook hear him and start giggling like school girls. 

“Shut the fuck up,” I say. It’s all in good fun. They’ve known me since forever. Know the real me. Not all image and rep. There’s been pretty girls, but there have been as many pretty boys turning my head. But that has to be on the down low. I have to have my game face on at all times. 

Dom and I make eye contact through the glass and he smiles, all the way up to his eyes. I’m helpless to do anything except smile back. I put my head phones on and tell Slim to take over. I’m a worthless fan boy.

He sings like an angel. A devil and an angel all in one. This is gonna get ugly. For me.

It’s all said and done, in like, twenty minutes. “Was that all right, luv?” Dom asks, after I offer to walk him out to his Uber. We pause in the hallway between the recording studio and the living room. 

“You killed it. It was perfect,” I say without thinking. I should be playing this more cool. 

“Aw, fanks,” he says, turning to face me. 

“Look, um, we have a dinner to go to,” I say.

“Oh, right. I’ll get outta your hair, then.”

“No, no. I mean, yeah. But-- ”

“I got a fing to go to as well,” he says. 

“Oh. Right,” I say. Already disappointed. “Are you free after? We were gonna head up to the Roxy at about ten. Local punk-pop band playing. Have a few drinks?”

I sound like I’m asking him out. I am asking him out, though. He smiles again, like he doesn’t know that each one is progressively killing me. I hold my breath. He’s not saying no.

“Sounds fun. Can I bring a friend?” he asks. 

My stomach drops. I shrug like it’s fine. It’s cool. “Yeah. Bring whoever. Everyone,” I say, with a wave of my hand. Casual. 

“It’s just me manager. Me buddy, Gav,” he says. 

“Oh,” I say. “Cool,” I add, like an idiot. 

Dom steps in close. Real close where I can smell his spicy hairspray. “Not me boyfriend,” he says, softly, into my ear. “Don’t have one.”

“That’s . . . cool,” I say. Because I’m smooth like that. 

He giggles again before throwing his arms wide. “Give us a hug then. Thanks for everyfing,” he says, his voice loud and bubbly again. He leans in and wraps his arms around my shoulders, I tentatively place my hands on his waist, then let them slide around to his lower back. I’m vividly aware of every place my body encounters his. It’s electric. He smells amazing. Of that hairspray, lipstick, and warm. I’m sure he feels my nose brush his neck because he giggles, flinching, suddenly, like he’s ticklish. 

I watch him walk out, waving to the rough group of guys in the front room like they are old friends. “Bye, lads!” he hollers. And god help me, many of them holler back in friendly farewells. I stand there for a long time after the door closes. Feeling high, and light, and eager, in a way that I haven’t in a long time.   
I’m fucked. 

The Roxy is wall to wall when we get there. Baze offers to order drinks from the bar. We mill about, because even the VIP is full. Well, It’s the Roxy, on a night like tonight pretty much the whole place is VIP. No matter, I want to keep an eye on the door. But pretend like I’m definitely not keeping an eye on the door. 

I can see Baze winding his way back empty handed--probably told the bartender to have someone bring the drinks to us. There’s a tap on my shoulder and Rook is pointing to the back where the Roxy’s manager, a friend of ours, is waving at us and pointing to a cleared table. 

The show starts and I’m a couple of beers in. Rook on my left, and Baze on my right, side by side, sitting along the wall. My thoughts are getting progressively darker as I wait. The show is just background noise. My friends laughing and yelling and people stopping by to say hello is just window hangings. Not sure why I thought such a dynamic person would want to go out with me. I don’t exactly exude anything that would probably make me his type. Does he like rap? He probably knows what a train wreck I am. Worse before, but still a wreck. I sought him out, getting his number from someone at the label. He responded and did his job in what was clearly a professional curtesy, at best. He’s done now. He can duck out until promo and shows start. It’s not personal. It’s fine. Wouldn’t be the first time I held on tighter than someone else. Caught feelings. Or thought someone was a friend, just to be stabbed in the back. 

The club is full and loud. I can feel my buddies on either side of me. 

Yet, I feel, as I often do. 

Alone. 

Rook elbows me hard. I look at him sharply but see him pointing. When I look up, I almost think it’s an illusion, Dom’s pretty face, all made up. He’s wearing striped T shirt with sinfully tight black pants. High hemmed, so I can still see those damn pink socks. Stunning. He talks to Slim animatedly. Baze moves from where he’s sitting next to me to greet him. He gives him a warm hug, and I try very hard to be petty or jealous. Through the noise of the crowd, I can’t hear what is said, but Baze points to the bar then holds out a hand to offer Dom the seat next to me. 

“Hiya,” Dom says. He’s close. He’s so very close. I can see the details of his eye make-up. The line of his lipstick. I deliberately move my gaze back to his eyes. Away from his lips. There lies insanity. He’s talking, but my senses are overwhelmed. Overloaded. He’s so damn close. He’s touching me now. On my arm. I flex my bicep reflexively and his fingers tighten. 

“Oh. That’s Gav,” he says, suddenly. Turning his face from mine and waving in the direction of someone adjacent to him at the table. I break away from my trance to look. I hadn’t seen him join us. I wonder where he even found his chair. His hair is dark, and he’s nice-looking, though very tame and conservative next to Dom. Next to us. In this whole club. But his smile is friendly, if not a bit knowing for my taste. But this is Dom’s friend. I shake his hand firmly. It’s much too loud for conversation, so we all turn to look at the band playing. Nodding in thanks when more drinks arrive. 

I’m still feeling rather somber. I want to be away from here. Alone with him. Finding out about his childhood, his favorite bands, his favorite childhood bands. Not in a loud club where everyone is busy looking cool and looking for meaningless hook ups. 

Dom leans in again, his lips tickling my ear. “Alright, luv?” he asks, his arm looping around mine. Squeezing.

I don’t answer right away. I’m trying to find words, and hate it. Because I always have words. It’s literally my job. 

I put my lips next to his ear. “I’m not feeling it tonight.” He nods. I wait a few beats before leaning in again. “I wish we were somewhere else. Somewhere we could talk. Be alone.”

He pulls back to look at me. I’m fidgeting. Cracking my knuckles like I tend to when I’m nervous. “Where?” he asks. 

“My place?” I ask. 

His serious face suddenly breaks out into a wide smile that gives way to a belly laugh. “That’s cheesy,” he says. “Did you order mozzarella cheese sticks before we arrived? To come up with such a cheesy line?”

I laugh along. Hard not to. The laughter quells. “Let’s go, then,” he says. “I’m dying to see your record collection.”

I wave goodbye to my friends, following Dom and Gav out. None of them seem surprised, and I get more than one exaggerated wink and a thumbs up from Rook. 

Dom and Gav are talking low when I get outside. I light a cigarette and wait, giving them a minute. 

Gav calls out a goodbye, and I ask him if he needs a ride. He shakes his head, already hailing a cab. Luckily, it’s still early and there’s plenty of them. He pauses, looking at me hard. “Just. He’s a good kid. Big heart. Don’t break it,” he says.

Dom is groaning dramatically. “Stop it. You’re embarrassing me,” he says behind both the hands covering his face. 

“I’ll do my best,” I say to Gav.

“Do better than your best,” Gav says, as he opens the door to the cab. 

Seems a bit harsh, but not wrong. It’s nice to know that Dom has a team that genuinely cares about him. 

I let Dom pick the music on the way back to my house. Oasis. We harmonize easily, and Dom dances in his seat. Because of course he does.

When we get back, I find an old bottle of rum and Dom laughs and says it reminds him of high school. 

“Your room is a fucking mess!” he says, but he seems delighted by it. 

I shrug. I know it is.

“Here I thought it would be a proper swanky bachelor pad in here. Satin sheets and mirrored ceilings,” he says.

“You’re telling me you’re not swooning at the stacks of books, comics and the fact that I own every single season of Sponge Bob Square Pants?” I ask. 

“Oh, I’m well swooning,” he says.

He jumps on my bed, doing spins and flips until even I’m getting dizzy just watching him. We undress down to our underwear, with some sort of unspoken agreement for comfort. I tell him to pick out a record to listen to. Sublime. We lay next to each other and sing. And drink. And smoke cigarettes. And laugh. 

Wandering hands and high spirits get the best of us. Frantic urgency that gives way to exhaustion after shared orgasms. 

We kiss languidly under the sheets until our eyes droop and sleep pulls us both under. 

In the morning, I catch him as he’s coming out of my bathroom. Face washed clean, and puffy from sleep. Pink socks. I crowd him against the door jam and hold both my hands to his jaw and admire. 

He looks up at me. “Wow. You’re proper tall in the morning,” he says. 

“You’re proper pretty in the morning,” I counter.

“Not pretty at night?” he asks.

“Hot at night. Pretty in the morning. Gorgeous all the time,” I say.

He rolls his eyes. “There you go getting all cheesy again. You’re Mayor Mc Cheesy, you are. I don’t know what works on the ladies but if your fitting to kiss me-- ”

I do. I kiss him until our mouths are slack and we’re breathing heavy with the effort. 

He presses his forehead against mine. “I’m really glad I found that extra toothbrush,” he says. “You’re tall and affectionate in the morning.”

“I have to go work in the studio for a while,” I tell him, finding places on his face I still want to kiss. Eyelids. Nose. Corner of his gorgeous mouth. Chin. Every bit of that amazing jaw line. He lets me. 

“Can I hang out? I don’t have anything going today. It’s me day off,” he says. 

“Yeah. Definitely. Coffee?” I ask. 

“Tea. And a clean shirt, please. Wouldn’t want the lads to gossip,” he says.

I find him a band shirt and watch him put it on. Dom in my clothes is going to be very distracting today. Even more than regular Dom. Which is saying a lot. 

I leave him making tea and toast in the kitchen, after showing him where everything is. He’s still making a fuss that I don’t own an electric kettle. I make a mental note to ask my assistant what the hell an electric kettle is and if she can find me one. 

The studio is full today. The rapper I’m working with is rather up-and-coming. He’s talented, has some interesting lines. He’s visiting with his crew from Atlanta. He spits some bars into the mic and then tells me he’s going on break after only about forty-five minutes of work. I exchange a look with Slim. It’s going to be a long day. It’s not like this guy is paying me for the studio time. It’s supposed to be kind of a collab, set up by the label. Much different from yesterday. 

Behind me, some of his crew are smoking and talking shit while we wait for Dr. Dred or Dr. Red to come back from calling his Mrs. 

“Did you see Yungblud in the kitchen when we came in? Told you. Celebs everywhere in this town,” one guys says.

His friend, next to him, pipes up in response. “I’m not fucking gay or anything, but I bet he can do a lot with that mouth. I’d probably let him.”

I turn full around. “Why don’t you shut the fuck up?”

They both still. “Yeah, boss,” the first one says. 

When I turn back around Slim is looking at me out of the corner of his eye. “You want to take a break, man?” 

I don’t really. I want to get done and be alone with Dom again. But since we aren’t having what we want I nod, leaving my blunt in the ashtray on the desk. 

Out in the living room, I take everything in. Dom is painting Omer’s nails. Omer is my buddy and sometimes guitarist. Which is fine. Except now I want him to paint mine. But that’s not what stops me dead. 

Dom has his socks off, feet propped up on the coffee table, nails painted. Still wearing my shirt. House full, it’s the middle of the workday and now I have a boner.

They both look over when they see me. 

“’Ello, luv. How’s mixing going?” Dom asks.

I don’t answer. I frown. Dom puts the cap back on the polish and begins to blow on Omer’s hand. Omer’s eyes go wide, and he looks rapidly from Dom to me and back to Dom. 

“Can I speak to you. For a second. Dom,” I manage. Sounding like I’m having a stroke. I might be having a stroke. 

He turns back around and looks at me. Then the smile. 

He’s trying to kill me. 

He follows me into the bathroom, virtually the only room not occupied besides my bedroom. If we go in there right now, nobody is getting any more work done today.

I lift him on to the vanity and bury my face in his neck. My free hand not steadying him on the counter finds his foot. He starts squealing and squirming around until he can lift my head away from his neck with both hands. “I am dead ticklish, Colson. That’s not fair!”

“Not fair?” I ask, trying to sound firm, but I can feel my smile breaking through. “I have a foot fetish,” I say, grabbing his ankles. “You must know that. Everyone knows that.”

“I didn’t. I swear.” He pats my shoulder consolingly, almost convincing but then he bends his other knee and places his foot on the front of my jeans where I’m half hard. 

I reach for his belt, waiting for him to nod his consent. He does and I’m already remiss that I don’t have more time. That I can’t empty the house. 

It’s fast and it’s sloppy. His face is pink and blotchy when I’m done. Like his socks. 

Someone is knocking. “In a minute,” I say, well aware how my voice sounds.

Dom slides into the small space between me and the sink, and right down onto his knees. He smiles up at me. Gorgeous.

I’m fucked. 

Dr. Fred is performing in some kind of rap battle at a club that night. Mostly amateurs, but since he doesn’t even have a single out yet he can get away with competing, and also maybe get some exposure. Dom has put make up on again and his emo-sad boy-rocker style sticks out like a sore thumb in this crowd. 

Mostly it’s fine. He’s so disarmingly friendly that the worst he gets is curious glances and some furrowed brows. There’s a lot of cool people here and I introduce Dom to a bunch of them between rounds. Dom seems to be enjoying himself though, I’m not sure if it’s the company, the music, or the copious amounts of alcohol he’s pounding away. I order two waters the next time the waitress comes by our table. 

Dom giggles through the last head to head. Dr. Bred was already eliminated in the last round so I decide it’s probably a good time to head out. Dom is skipping down the street with Rook ahead of Slim and I. Slim wants to dissect every rapper who was there tonight. He has a favorite and wants to know mine. As he starts to rant about his least favorite, we pass by Dom and Rook, staring drunkenly into a shop window. I don’t realize that they’ve missed the light until we are on the other side of the intersection. We wait. 

Slim tells me that he’s going to enter next time and show all those fools--

“Hey. What are you some kind of queer?” 

I look back across the street. Three guys are coming up on Rook and Dom. I’m not sure what kind of fighter Dom is, but even as scrappy as Rook is, these guys are each twice their size. Twice Rook’s size in height, and twice Dom’s size in bulk. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I can hear the sing-song of Dom’s accent as he probably tries to diffuse the situation with his charm. As he does. The Rook tells them to fuck off, as he does. 

Rook aims his comment at the tall one in the middle, but the one on Rook’s left sneaks up on him and swings. The punch connects with his jaw and Rook goes down hard. Slim starts yelling next to me at the guys. I join in. The traffic, typical of most intersections in L. A. is loud, congested and relentless. There’s little else we can do while we wait for the light and for the constant flow of cars to let us through. They glance over and then ignore us, they don’t seem to care who has it in for them. Maybe they like the audience.

When the big guy reaches for him, Dom swings, but doesn’t quite connect. Clips him, but then the other two guys are on him. There’s three seconds where I’m watching the a rain of punches fall, then I’m about ready to walk into traffic to make it stop. 

Dom’s on the ground, the trio of assholes running off as the light changes. Rook has found his feet and his crouched next to Dom. 

Most of me wants to give chase. To give back ten-fold what they just dished out. Me from not long ago would have done just that. Two lines in, high as fuck, and full of righteous anger. Me today, didn’t even finish my third beer, and is more tuned in to what Dom needs than a need to satisfy my own anger. 

The cop car eases up next to us, just as I got my hands on Dom, checking him. I pull him up by his shoulders to get a closer look at his face then I’m being knocked off my haunches. Chest down. Arms twisted. Knee against my shoulder blade. There’s enough yelling around me, that I hold my tongue. For once. Growth.

I’m twisting around though. Still trying to see where everyone at. The cops separate everyone. Of course, I’m the only one waiting in cuffs. Typical. I can just barely see, over my shoulder, Dom sitting up. Blood running down his forehead and along the right side of his face. He’s glassy-eyed but conscious. Bruises starting to stand out against his pale skin. The cop is shining a light in Dom’s eyes and trying to sort out the cause of bleariness: injury-related or ingested. 

Part two is the cause. It’s always my fault. Dom’s voice is loud and shrill and laced with panic as he tries to explain about the other guys. My wrists pull against the metal reflexively at the need to go to him. The interrogation goes on too long, each line of his panicked voice is too many. 

Finally, one of the cops, after being satisfied with the story, unlocks my shackles. 

Pushing past two of the cops, my hand finds Dom’s, reaching out. Who am I to deny. 

I kneel down on the concrete next to him. He pulls me closer, resting his head on my shoulder. His wet face curls into my neck. Wet with blood. Wet with tears. He lets out a shaky exhale. Whatever strife he’s seen, I don’t think Dom’s encountered much violence in his young life. Plus, I know that he’s not used to cops with guns. 

There’s a whole row of those armed cops looking down on us. Helping, yet hostile. I glance around to see my guys lined up against the shop wall five paces down.  
“That cut might need stitches. Got an ambulance on route,” one of the cops says.

I can feel Dom shaking his head, too upset to answer. I answer for him. “No. I’ll take him. Gotta call his people.”

The cop who asked, nods. Another one produces some gauze packs and reminds me to apply pressure to the cut.

We load into the car, stretch out in back, Slim drives. Dom is chirping in my ear. “First date, we jump on your bed. Second date, kicked down on the street in my damn heeeeeaaaaad.” He intones in his warbly, distorted falsetto. I can’t help but laugh. Hand not holding the gauze runs a hand down his side. He screeches. “Ticklish!” he yells. 

They don’t let me back to the treatment rooms when he gets his stitches. I call the number Dom gave me and let Gav know what happened. There’s a long and weary sigh on the other side of the line. I’m not winning points on this one. Always to blame. Always my fault.

Dom wobbles out, singing, with that wide, charming smile back on his lips. I wrap my arm around his head, pull him close, and kiss him just above the taped gauze. “Gonna go home to jolly England with a tough scar. Welcome to the thug life,” I tell him.

“You wanker. This place is mental. Take me home, lads!” he says to Slim and Rook.

It occurs to me that he means my place. I’m not sure if it pleases me or scares me more. Both. Either. All. 

The rest of the crew give us some space and time when we arrive back. Dom and I strip down and climb under cool sheets. I cue up music and we make up silly lyrics. Giggling and planting soft kisses. We finish up the rum. I try to remember the last time I had something this gentle. This soft. This precious. 

We fall asleep in with tangled limbs. 

Good bye is over eggs. Our hugs linger. He tastes like coffee and smells like my sheets. And his own spicy hairspray. My nose tickles his hairline and his laugh is wet against my neck. 

“You going to Facetime me, you wanker?” he asks. 

“Fuck yeah, I am. What happened to ‘darling’? What happened to ‘luv’? Now I’m just ‘wanker’?”

“Yeah, you are. ‘Cause you’re gonna break my heart, you are. You wanker,” he says.

“You’re already breaking mine. You came right into my studio, my own home, and stole my heart like a damn thief,” I tell him.

He huffs. “I need you to keep in touch,” he says. More quiet than the rest.

“Don’t need me,” I tell him. “I’m as solid as whip cream. I’m as whole as swiss cheese. Don’t need me, Dom. I’m barely holding up on my own most days.”

He nods. 

And he’s gone. 

We do Facetime. We do talk, and make plans. Criss-crossing the globe to be at each other’s shows.

There’s a stretch in there. A week with no travel. One night, I’ve been out with my crew. A show, too many shots. My dad texting me bullshit. I’ve been going through it.   
Dom’s Facetime call comes in just as I’m passing out. Alone in my bed. Dreams coming in fast. Hands moving slow. Thoughts moving slower. In the morning, or, well after noon, I see the missed call. 

When the phone rings again I answer even though it says ‘unknown’. 

“This is Gav,” the voice says on the other line. 

A cold feeling washes over me, and I feel ill. Nothing to do with my drinking last night. 

“Dom tried to kill himself last night. Or, what they are calling a ‘gesture’. He’s okay. Impulsive, I think. Not planned. He was upbeat a couple days ago. He’s inpatient in the hospital over the weekend. But will be out Monday, most likely. I don’t want you here, if I’m being honest. But he’s asking for you.”

I let the words wash over me. “I told him not to need me,” I tell him. 

“Yeah? Well, too fuckin bad. He does. He wants you, and he needs you, and if you fuck this up I will come back to L.A. and kick the living shit out of your lanky ass.”

It’s a threat out of anguish. I can hear it in his voice. The desperation. “I’m coming. As soon as I’m off with you, I’ll get my assistant on the line, man,” I tell him. I was meant to come in a week anyway, not much should have to be shuffled. Couple sessions, a small local show. I don’t really give a fuck at the moment anyway. If Dom wants me there, I go. 

Dom is smoking like a chimney when I get there. We’re at his house. Or one of them. Long sleeves on a hot day. Dark circles under his eyes. Hair greasy. No hairspray. No make-up. I watch him smoke three cigarettes in a row and listen without listening to him chatter about nothing at all before I can’t take it and snatch the cigarette right out of his hand and toss it in the sink. He looks confused for a minute, but at least the meaningless chattering stops. 

It only takes one hand on his elbow, and the slightest pull of pressure and he folds. Collapses his long figure into me. I walk us as one into the living room and sink down into the cushions. He fits into my lap, weight on my left leg, arms around my neck. We stay like that for a long time. 

I get him in the shower, eventually, and find him some soft clothes in the back bedroom that must be his. It’s the messiest. Not as messy as mine by a mile, but lived in.   
I lay out the clothes on the bed. Pink socks. 

I find some menus on the counter in the kitchen and order in Chinese. Getting more than we need because I don’t know what he likes, or what he’ll eat. He’s smoking again, back on the couch.   
I sit next to him. Not touching. I wait. 

“It’s not because you didn’t answer,” he says, like an apology. “It’s not your fault.”

“It’s always my fault. But I did tell you not to need me,” I say. 

He nods, but looks away, like he thinks it’s a rejection. 

“Not because I don’t care, Dom. I care so fucking much,” my voice breaks on it. I swallow. “It’s because I can’t be strong for the both of us. I can barely cope with my own shit most days. I’ve come a long way, but I’m still fifty shades of fucked up. You see that, right?”

He doesn’t answer. 

I take his cigarette and take a drag, then drop it in a cup on the table in front of us. I tug on him until he climbs back into my lap, facing me. I put my hands on his hips. “You have to find that strength inside you. You have to build it up like, like muscle maybe. Train it like your voice.”

He nods. “I won’t do it again.”

“You might,” I tell him. And I’m glad Gav isn’t hear because he might have a go at kicking my ass. “But I don’t want you to. Your family doesn’t want you to. Your mates. My mates. The lads!” he rolls his eyes at my impersonation of his accent. “The fans. Your fans would be fucking crushed if they knew. You refer to them as your family, don’t you?”

He nods again. He’s mashing his lips together like, if he tries to speak, he might lose it. But I can already see the tears building along his long lashes. 

“But the strength isn’t in them, or for them, Dom. It’s gotta be here.” I tap his chest. 

He lays his head down, tucking under my chin. A wrap around him. “I missed you,” he says into my chest. “Is that okay to say?”

“I missed the fuck out of you, too.”

We eat Chinese on the floor on a pile of blankets in front of the TV. Afterward, he paints my nails. Pink. To match his socks. The polish dries as we sing together. Oasis again. Belting, because we can.

We make plans and talk about upcoming shows. I feel at home. In a strange, foreign way. 

I feel comforted. I feel calm. 

I do not feel alone. 

I hold him closer, pull him tighter. I don’t want to need him. 

But maybe it’s okay, that I’ve found something that I want.


End file.
